Meet The Farmers: The Next Five Years (Tammy)

In our Monday "Meet the Farmers" series that I began last week, I wrote of the "ideal" childhood in which I grew up for the first seven years of my life.  Although those first seven years were in actuality filled with struggles for my parents, they never let my brother and I know of how hard things were, and we knew only a home filled with love and gentle care.  Those years were cut short when my mom was killed in a tragic horse riding accident.

My parents were actually in the process of moving from our little homestead house on Mt. Olive Road to a friend's farm in the same town when the accident occurred that took our mother's life.  The recession of the 1970's had hit our family hard and my dad was laid off for two years from the automobile plant where he worked.  To make ends meet, we moved into a very small trailer on the farm.  Perhaps this is where my love of cows began in earnest. The trailer set right in the middle of a cow pasture. There was nothing to keep the mixed herd of beef cattle from walking right up to our trailer where they would rub their head on the corners.  The first sounds I heard most every morning were those of the cattle outside my bedroom window.

We worked a lot.  Even though we were young, my brother and I were expected to do our part to lighten the work load.  We had our household chores and then there was the "farm" work.  We had calves to bottle feed at times and when my dad's 12 sows had babies, we bottle fed the weak piglets and helped with vaccinations.  We were frequently in the hay fields and we helped with getting the wood in for winter. My dad taught me to drive a tractor when I was about nine years old and I was often seen driving up and down our long, gravel driveway by myself in the car when I was ten to eleven years of age.   We had a huge garden and spent many hours in the hot sun weeding, hoeing, and gathering produce.  We helped with the food preservation as well.   On this farm, was a commercial chicken house where thirty three thousand birds were brought in as peeps and raised up to laying age.  When I was eleven, I began helping to stock the peeps.  Then when the birds were starting to lay, I worked with a crew to de-beak and vaccinate the birds and then ship them out.  The latter was extremely hot, back breaking work and I was paid a half a penny a chicken for each one I caught and vaccinated. It was also during these years that I was introduced to dairy cattle and raw milk, when my dad began helping a neighboring farmer milk his commercial herd.

When my work was caught up, I was given the freedom to roam the land freely.  I took solace in the woods and pastures. I had some favorite spots to frequent.  One was a small "seasonal" water fall where the moss grew thick.  There was something magical about that spot, and I often thought surely the woodland fairies must be hiding and observing my intrusion.  I also spent many hours in the creek catching craw dads, and minnows, and staying just out of reach of the snapping turtles.  Long walks through the fields; skipping rocks on the pond; playing in an old abandoned cabin; jumping off the elevated, abandoned railroad and sliding down it's sandy banks; searching for the antique railroad spikes on the abandoned tracks; sliding down the leaf covered hills in cardboard boxes in the fall; and sledding in the winter were some of the ways we entertained ourselves on the farm when we were not working.

 These were years filled with struggle for me personally as I tried to begin accepting my mother's death as well as the introduction of a step mother into my life when my dad remarried.   I also became aware of how "poor" we were compared to most  of my friends as well as the differences between their life in the suburbs and city and my life on the farm.  I loved living on the farm and the lessons I learned there have stayed with me all my life.  I learned that work is fun as well as rewarding, and I learned to find solace in nature. I learned that being different is good and that time alone can be a treasure. The years on the farm reinforced my interest in livestock and agriculture, shaping who I would become as an adult, and preparing me for a life on a farm in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia as the wife of a third generation farmer.

How Do Farmers Say I Love You?

I looked out the window yesterday afternoon and witnessed my farmer husband's red Ford truck sitting in front of the barn where he had unloaded the hay I had requested for my growing calves, mini horses, and spoiled rotten pet goats.  Then I saw him leaned against the end of the pitch fork for a brief moment, taking a break, his eyes looking out over the land.  Shortly he returned to shoveling the manure that MY animals had made and that I consider MY responsibility,  and my heart just melted.  The grandchildren had gone home, so I put on my insulated coveralls and a warm coat. Instead of taking my evening walk, I went to the barnyard and there my man and I had a heart to heart talk.  The serious conversation was interspersed with teasing and laughter while he shoveled MY manure (which I thought was the perfect metaphor as I sorted out some negative feelings that needed to be transformed into "fertilizer" and character growth).  When he finished, I opened the gates for him while he put round bales in the feeders for the rest of the cattle.  Because it's winter, we were able to have an "early" supper and continued conversation across the table as we ate our homegrown baked potatoes and creamed lima beans along with our farm raised beef.  We finished the evening off by sitting side by side watching a few game shows on television.  Everything about our evening when I looked at it through open eyes, was a testament to our love.

This farmer's wife doesn't need (or even want) expensive flower arrangements, fine dining, expensive  (or any) gifts, or exotic vacations to know my man loves me (although he does do those things on occasion).  It's the faithfulness he exhibits daily to our love, our life, our family. It's the joy we find together in the midst of a sometimes difficult profession and  while living in an often hostile world.  It's the daily dedication that melts my heart and keeps me hopeful even when life deals out it's worst.

Real love is a whole lot like farming with a lot of messy crap to shovel,  disheartening circumstances to overcome, emotions that sometimes run too hot or too cold, long days, short night's, and heartbreaking losses.   The messiness is counter balanced by new life, beautiful sunrises and sunsets, and the rewards of  the honest labor we put towards our ever growing love.

On this Valentine's Day, if I had to choose all over again, I would choose THIS life with my farmer who knows exactly how to show me how much he loves me.  After all, he DOES shovel my cow's poop.

Happy Valentine's Day from a couple of farmers!

Friday Farm Scenes

Meet The Farmers: The First Seven Years (Tammy)

 I have nothing but beautiful memories of my first seven years of life and those days, no doubt, influenced me to seek out the same type of life as an adult.  My parents encouraged me to run free outdoors, absorb myself in nature, and surround myself with animals.  The road I took to farming wasn't a straight path, but I hope to present a series of entries here on the blog to map out the twisting path that brought me to where I am today and help you to get to know this farmer a little better.

I remember the little house in which we lived during those formative years, but most of the memories I hold dear took place outside that little pink house on Mt. Olive Road in DeSoto, Missouri.  I think I was born a free spirit. Fortunately, my parents nurtured that in me from an early age. I was such a free spirit, that I remember on more than one occasion getting into some trouble when my Granny from Georgia came to visit, because I would run around outside without wearing my clothes.  That didn't set well with my Granny at all.  She made sure that I had clothes on, although she didn't mind a bit if I left off my shoes.  I spent many hours climbing trees or lying under them and looking into the branches.  I loved watching the clouds, digging earth worms, catching bugs, playing in the sand box with my trucks, and following my parents around getting into everything they were trying to accomplish.

This was in the late 60's and early 70's and there was a recession making living difficult for most everyone except for the extremely wealthy.  My Georgia born and raised father had moved my mother and I to the area when I was but six months old so that he could get a job in St. Louis to support us.  His beloved, North Georgia mountains did not provide the means for him to live there and care for us adequately, so he did what he had to do.  The man has taught me many important lessons over the years, and his selflessness in caring for his family has been an important part of the lessons I learned.  The little house we lived in was very simple, and I guess by most people's standards, we were considered poor.  However, I didn't realize it.  My parents worked hard to provide food and a safe, comfortable place for me and later my little brother who is 3.5 years younger.  My parents were "homesteaders" of sorts, at least according to today's implied definition. I am sure they didn't consider themselves such.  They were simply living as they had been taught, to make the best of the few acres they owned by gardening, preserving food, and raising animals for the table.

One of my dad's favorite stories is telling how he took me to the garden with him when I was just a toddler.  As he planted tomatoes down the row, I toddled along behind him "helping".  When he got to the end of the row, I had pulled up every tomato that he had planted!  Often, my parents would set me in the strawberry patch when the berries were ripe and let me entertain myself by picking the sweet berries and plopping them directly into my mouth.  I can still feel my sticky, red fingers and taste the sweetness of those berries on my tongue.  To this day, strawberries are my favorite, perhaps because they bring back the sweetest memories.

On our little "homestead" we had an interesting menagerie of animals.  There was my sweet and lovely dog Lady, and later a Collie named "Peppy" for my brother.  We had standard sized chickens and "banties".  I loved to help my mother gather the eggs and was always fascinated with the butchering process when it was time to put some poultry on the table for dinner.  On the other side of the chicken coop, separated by a wall, my dad made me a play house.  I spent many hours in that play house "cooking", tending house, and taking care of my doll babies.  I guess I was born maternal and had to make do with those dolls until my brother came along for me to smother.  (I told my parents I needed a baby brother.  Not a sister.  Only a brother would do.  I prayed diligently for him until he appeared!)

My dad often took me with him squirrel hunting and I would help him skin out the squirrels and get them ready for the frying pan.  We also raised meat rabbits and I remember butchering day well.  Because I was attached to the bunnies, Daddy would let me keep a few as pets. He would always send me off to another area of the property to play until the butchering was completed so that I didn't have to witness the rabbits being processed.  I was never traumatized with the butchering process of the chickens or the skinning of the squirrels, but I guess because I had more of a heart toward the rabbits, he didn't want to risk upsetting me.

I don't remember us every raising any calves on that property, but I do remember us fattening up a hog and butchering her to put in the freezer.  Any scraps from the dinner table were carefully saved and taken down to her every day.

Because my mother was such an animal lover, we also found ourselves temporary family to an orphaned raccoon that I named "Missy".  We raised her up until she was big enough to open the door of her cage and let herself out.  For a while she would come and go, until eventually, nature called and she went off to make a family of her own.

In addition to the dogs, chickens, rabbits, occasional hog, and a temporary pet raccoon,  we also kept a horse for my mom who loved to ride. She also eventually insisted that we have a Shetland pony for us kids.  I remember sitting up on that pony's bare back and holding onto her mane while my mom led her around the pasture.  Our mother's love of horses was in her blood.  Owning the horse and pony was an extravagant expense for my parents at that time of their life, but a testimony to my dad's love for my mom and his desire to make her happy.  Unfortunately, the object of my mother's passionate hobby ended up being the that ended her life at a very young age.  I was only seven and my brother three when she died as a result of injuries sustained in a freak accident with her horse.  Her death occurred when I was seven and my brother three.  Of course, our lives changed forever in a moment and for me, all those beautiful memories of that little homestead where I lived with my parents for the first seven years of my life are enshrined in my heart as a testimony of the good life that we had together.  Those first seven years had a huge impact on who I am today, the choices I have made as an adult, the things I taught my children, and now the experiences and lessons I wish to share with my grandchildren.

Note: It's my intention to share more about our lives here in a series here on Mondays for a while entitled "Meet the Farmer".  Eventually I may expand to include stories of other farmers as well.  If you would be interested in sharing your story, please contact me at tcuppminiatures@yahoo.com.  

Farm Scenes

“Why do farmers farm, given their economic adversities on top of the many frustrations and difficulties normal to farming? And always the answer is: "Love. They must do it for love." Farmers farm for the love of farming. They love to watch and nurture the growth of plants. They love to live in the presence of animals. They love to work outdoors. They love the weather, maybe even when it is making them miserable. They love to live where they work and to work where they live. If the scale of their farming is small enough, they like to work in the company of their children and with the help of their children. They love the measure of independence that farm life can still provide. I have an idea that a lot of farmers have gone to a lot of trouble merely to be self-employed to live at least a part of their lives without a boss.” 

― Wendell Berry, Bringing it to the Table: Writings on Farming and Food

Farm Scenes

The Stow Away

A friend of ours dropped his trailer at the family farm, a little over a mile from our house.  He and Mike both left the farm and went about their business.  Later, Mike came back to find the big farm collie, JJ,  barking at the trailer.  Mike kept telling JJ the trailer was empty, but JJ just would not stop barking.  Mike then decided that he would open the trailer to prove his point.  What a surprise when he opened the doors!  There inside sat Spencer, our Corgi!  He had been in the trailer for about four or five hours by that time.  Mike gathered him up and Spencer got to ride in the cab of the truck on the way home.

Evidently, when Mike and his friend Al had been at our house with the cattle trailer door open, Spencer had gone inside.  They had shut up the trailer without realizing it contained a stow away.  We are just thankful that Mike came along and let Spencer out when he did, because that trailer was headed to Roanoke (an hour and forty five minutes away) and eventually on to South Carolina.  It's possible the trailer might not have been opened for days, or opened in a strange place where Spencer might have been frightened and bolted. It's possible we could have lost him. Interestingly enough, Spencer never barked or made a sound to indicate that he was inside the trailer.  It suddenly became very clear how easy it would be for a dog to end up across the country!